


the things we feel (but cannot say)

by vogonpoetry



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, Childhood Friends, Clubbing, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but not really smutty, reader is a brat, you just take an emotional beating every chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 01:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogonpoetry/pseuds/vogonpoetry
Summary: Miya Atsumu, star setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, is bored. You, the fashion industry's newest obsession and Bel-Air Brat, are heartbroken. After a chance meeting at one of your families' "rich people events," the two of you strike up an... interesting alliance.Naturally, things get complicated.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	the things we feel (but cannot say)

Happiness can be found anywhere. Yours is in the place right between buzzed and shitfaced wasted and, right now, you are _ecstatic_.

The air when you arrived smelled like smoke and perfume and the sillage of some spoiled frat boys’ vapes. Now it’s just air. The thudding bass of whatever Nicki Minaj song the DJ is playing vibrates through your bones, your skull, the empty space in your chest. It fills you up with _good_ shit– bright synth and lyrics that probably say nothing at all, even if just for three minutes. Another song will come on and you’ll dance to it like it’s still the first song you heard when you strutted into the club through camera flashes at 11 p.m. in a champagne-colored dress, makeup done to the nines, arm-in-arm with your friends.

Grinning, you close your eyes and lift your arms, moving your hips to the beat like you’re _that bitch_ on the cover of this month’s issue of _Vogue_. 

Because you are.

But you’re not at 1OAK at two in the morning to celebrate that.

A hand slides around your waist, its owner you identify as soon as you see the Cartier-adorned wrist and lime green fingernails. You grind into her body to say hello.

“Hey, bestie,” Isla slurs, slinging an arm around your shoulder. Your childhood-best-friend-turned-fellow-model stumbles as she steps around the dance floor. “We’re– we’re the hottest fucking people in this club right now.”

“That’s so mean!” you yell with a laugh. 

Isla points around the sea of bodies on the dance floor, slightly veiled by mist and smoke. Her aim is unfocused and now she’s pointing at the ceiling. “Do you see any other… hot people here?” 

Everything’s blurry and the strobe lights are blinding. It’s whatever. Honestly, you don’t care– you want to _dance_. “I can’t see shit,” you shout. She just giggles and says something that gets eaten by the music. Not bothering to ask her to repeat herself, you grab her hands and start swaying to the drumbeat again. Isla squeals and dances along, screaming something like _this is my song!!_ as if she hadn’t said that for all the other songs that played tonight. And all the nights before tonight. A sudden wave of gratitude washes over you. There’s more Moët than blood in her body and she’s a bit of a bitch, but if there’s _anyone_ who knows how to have a good time, it’s Isla fucking Lee. And she’s the only reason why this past month has been bearable, so you scream, “Thank you for everything– you’re a fucking genius!”

Because the alternative was to sit in your condo and cry over someone who doesn’t love you anymore.

It’s laughable, really, how pathetic you are. The daughter of a celebrity lawyer and Oscar-winning actress, the face of collections by Burberry, Valentino, Prada, and more, this year’s Model of the Year has spent an entire month hung up on a _man_. You have Kim Kardashian on speed dial and you broke down last night because you saw your ex’s name trending on Twitter. Get a grip, girl.

But Oikawa Tooru isn’t just someone you can just “get over.”

Oikawa Tooru is someone you have to _pray_ to get out of your system because being loved by someone like him is something of a religious experience. Was. _Fuck._ There’s a reason why Icarus died after touching the sun. Imagine life after that, how dull it’d be. Nothing would ever compare– you’d be living a shadow, chasing after light.

And now you quite literally living in a shadow, dancing your life away at 2 AM in 1OAK while he’s probably returned from his morning run in Argentina. It’s 7 AM in Buenos Aires. You hate that you know that.

A sparkling line of women in bikinis parts through the crowd to your table, each holding a bottle of champagne. Someone yells that drinks are back, and that’s perfect because you’ve realized that you’re not quite buzzed enough.

“Let’s go,” you shout as you turn, pushing through the throng of people with Isla in tow.

A wave of cheers erupts as you step into the circle around the table. Someone with black hair in a red dress, probably Heather, hands you a drink. “A toast to Y/N!” Lev screams, raising his flute of champagne to the air. He points at you from the couch, rings on his fingers flashing like a predator’s eyes. “Miss _Vogue_!”

Your cheeks heat up as your friends scream your name into the air, downing their drinks right after. You put the glass to your lips and tilt your head back, taking the champagne like a shot. The alcohol slides down easily.

“Seriously!” Lev is suddenly right beside you. He must’ve hopped off the couch while you weren’t watching. “Congrats on the _Vogue_ cover! I knew you could do it!” If you were a bit more sober you’d remind him that happened a week ago– and that he had called you once already when the issue dropped. But you’re not. You’re _happy_ and it’s a big fucking deal and you just remembered you’re on the cover of this month’s issue of _Vogue_ and you’re fucking proud of yourself and you’re happy. You are. Really. The silver-haired man pulls you in for a hug, pressing your cheek to his Gucci dress shirt.

Lev is great. He’s so _bubbly_ and harmless but he puts a forty-eighth of a thought into any decision he makes and would definitely be in jail by now if it weren’t for daddy’s money. _Actually_ , you grimace and wrap your arms around his toned waist, _most of your friends would be_.

At least, all your friends here at 1OAK would be. The phone you stuffed in your bra earlier suddenly makes itself known, the notifications you saw floating on your lockscreen earlier (clarification: when you were _soberer_ ) reminding you of the vastly different world you have your other Louboutin-clad foot in.

**rin**

lol that’s wild

**aran**

yeah

got me panicked and all too

damn i thought i was gonna miss andy’s wedding

**shin**

That’s what happens when you don’t book your flight a month in advance.

**samu**

dw aran, tsumu missed the opening of the first onigiri miya in new york

**aran**

you're wrong for this 😂 

mans isn’t even in this gc to defend himself

**rin**

yeah bc he wasn’t in yato’s calc class

**samu**

suna why did u just text tsumu that we’re talking shit about him in a gc he’s not in

**rin**

lol

Honestly, the fashion industry and professional sports _do_ mix and they mix _very_ well. Often, too. Isla’s dating someone on the Lakers. Your high school friends now play volleyball on Division 1 teams. Your ex-boyfriend – _fuck_.

Feeling your arms loosen around him, Lev holds you at a distance, unfocused eyes flitting over your face. “What?” he yells.

“Nothing!” A grin graces your lips easily. (As it should when you fake-smile for a living.) “Just need another shot.”

You take three.

And then you grab Isla and head back to the heart of the dance floor. It’s great. Bodies pressed against bodies, the bass thumping wildly through your bones, the alcohol starting to make you feel _giddy_ … God, you could do this forever.

“So who– who, who are you fucking tonight?” Isla shouts, grinning deviously.

“Didn’t you say there aren’t any hot people here?”

“I’m tipsy, not God, bitch!”

Deciding to humor her _this time_ , you force yourself to focus and look around the club. So maybe clubbing isn’t the only post-breakup activity you’ve been getting involved in. So maybe you’ve been bringing a guy home every time you go out. Yeah, this is your life and it’s a little sad. It’s whatever. You never marketed yourself as a saint. You’ll take any high, any rush of dopamine you can get. Anything to feel a little less empty.

Your eyes catch on a tall brunet sitting at a table in the corner, slowly sipping from a whiskey tumbler.

 _That one_.

* * *

It’s too bright. _Fuck_. Pushing your oversized sunglasses farther up your nose bridge, you sit back in your chair and observe all the faces at brunch today.

If it hadn’t been for the sixteen alarms you’d set the day before, you would most definitely have missed your parents’ little get-together. Little. Today, it’s just the Suna’s and Miya’s sitting at the table in your parents’ backyard. The younger Suna is happily giggling away with your little brother. Rin and Osamu are watching something on Rin’s phone. All your parents are talking about the Miya’s new lakefront property.

Which leaves Miya Atsumu to you.

“Heard you’re going through a phase,” the blond murmurs across the table with a light smirk on his face.

“And what about it?” you retort, taking a sip of your sparkling water.

Atsumu shrugs and cuts off a piece of his turkey sausage, popping it into his mouth. “Didn’t take ya as the type.”

“To have sex?”

He chokes, drawing the attention of the rest of the table.

“Atsumu?” his mother asks with furrowed brows.

“M’fine.”

It’s lost on you why your parents seated you this way: Rin and Samu beside each other, Atsumu in front of you. You’re not even friends with Atsumu. Four years at Inarizaki went by with the two of you exchanging maybe a hundred words at most. That’s just how it was. Your parents know this. Everyone’s dressed in white, too. It’s a fucking Bel-Air nightmare— that’s what it is. You’re literally in Bel-Air right now, living out a scene from _Midsommar_. The air even smells like a Nordic meadow, if that makes any sense. The new purple and pink flowers lining the backyard might’ve been imported. It looks nice, not that you’d expected otherwise.

“It’s not like you’re a saint either,” you say, the corners of your mouth quirking up. Samu’s told you enough about his twin’s shenanigans for you to know he’s a mess. A hot mess, but a mess nonetheless.

“I’m not the one goin’ through a hoe phase,” Atsumu replies pointedly. “I have a _girlfriend_.”

For some reason, this is news to you. Subtly, you look over to Samu. He hadn’t told you _that_. Pushing your sunglasses down to expose your eyes, you ask, “Oh?”

But something interesting happens. Most guys, when talking about their girlfriends, get this _look_ on their faces. A soft little smile. Light crows’ feet. Their entire demeanor changes. Atsumu, on the other hand, looks bored.

“Yeah.” And that’s all he says before changing the subject. You chalk it up to him being past the honeymoon phase. Or maybe they had a fight earlier. It’s not a big deal– dysfunctional relationships are as common as nose jobs in your world. “Congrats on the _Vogue_ cover, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you say, offering him a smile. “The same for you and that game in Brazil last week.”

Atsumu cocks his head to the side. “How’d you know? Been stalkin’ me or somethin’?” A teasing grin plays on his lips.

“Yeah. I run at least five of your fan accounts.”

“Damn,” he laughs, stretching his arms behind his head. His muscles, the product of diligent training and world-class nutrition, flex under the sun. Noticing your gaze, his grin grows wider. _Fuck_. Your eyes flit back up to where they should have been. Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t hold it against you. Or maybe he should have so that you could clear the air because now your momentary ogling hangs in there like a thickening agent. “Shoulda known Misses-dot-Miya was you.”

Goddamnit, Y/N, stop flirting with him. He has a _girlfriend_. Actually, _he_ also needs to stop flirting with _you_. _Fuck_. “Guilty as charged.” And then you decide to put an end to this mess by dragging Rin into it. “Rin,” you call, seeing the dark-haired man lift his head and set his phone down. His jade eyes look uninterestedly at yours, but you know you’ve got his full attention.

“When’s EJP’s next game?”

Rin pauses as he thinks. “Next week. What, you want tickets or something?” 

You smile and bat your lashes at him. 

The corners of his lips twitch. “Aight, bet.”

“Still don’t get why you watch volleyball,” Samu remarks. “Don’t you models always sit courtside for basketball?”

“Yeah, but basketball is boring. Volleyball’s like chess. Basketball’s like Smash Bros. I’d rather die than be bored.”

“Smash Bros is fun,” Atsumu mutters under his breath, earning an eye-roll from you.

“So you’re never gonna attend a basketball game,” Samu says, raising his brows. “I call cap.” He takes a bite out of his toast.

Laughing, you reply, “Well, that depends.”

“On what?” Samu asks.

“If I’m fucking a basketball player.”

Even Rin cracks a smile at that.

Brunch ends at three. The staff begins clearing the table after everyone starts walking to the front yard, nodding as you tell them your thanks.

“Sweetums,” your mother says at the front gate, pulling you into a hug. “Do you need a ride home?” She definitely knows you Ubered here. She _maybe_ knows you’re hungover. Your Bentley isn’t parked out front as it usually is when you visit. Honestly, if you’d driven here in this state you probably would have gotten into an accident.

“Yes, please.” Maybe George is in today. That old man’s chauffeured for your family since you can remember. Not only is he a phenomenal driver, but he also makes for great conversation. You’re certain he’s lived everywhere, experienced everything. But then you realize he’s going to take one look at you before knowing you spent all of last night drunk. And then he’ll lecture you for fucking around too much. “Actually, I can just ask one of the boys to take me back.” You’d rather brave Rin’s “RIP JUICE” playlist for an hour than hear your childhood hero express his _profound_ disappointment in your recent developments.

“Can’t head downtown today,” Rin says. “Got practice after this.”

Samu offers you a grimace. “I’ve a flight to New York in an hour. Sorry, bud.”

“I can drive her,” Atsumu offers. He swings the keys to his Lamborghini Aventador around his finger as he looks between you and your mother. “I live downtown, too.”

* * *

Never before today have you thought of how _intimate_ the act of sitting in someone’s passenger seat is. Maybe that’s why you can’t look Atsumu in the face.

“I don’t bite,” he laughs, noticing your deliberately avoidant gaze. “You can look at me, ya know.”

“Well, we’re not really friends,” you say matter-of-factly, but you take your sunglasses off and set them down on the center console. “I don’t really… it takes time for me to warm up to acquaintances.”

Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t take offense to your words. They’re true, after all. “Ya callin’ yourself an ice princess?”

“No, I’m not a Riverdale writer.”

He laughs, the high-pitched giggle lighting up his face. “Well, even if you are, that’s fine.” Atsumu checks the sideview mirror, flashes his turn signals, and makes a right turn out of Bel-Air, the steering wheel spinning smoothly beneath his large hands. He’s a good driver. Not good like George, but good like James Bond. _Fuck_. “The press says I bring the heat.”

“That was the corniest shit I’ve ever heard anyone say.” _But it was kinda hot..._

Atsumu laughs again and bites his bottom lip to rein in his grin. “So when’d you move downtown?”

“Two years ago.” When you moved out at nineteen years old, you’d said it was to do “young people things” and be closer to your agent. Your parents very kindly ignored the fact that your agent lived four houses from theirs. “What about you?”

“Three years. I got offered to play professionally in senior year so I moved after grad.”

“And now you’re a three-year Jackal,” you hum, recalling all his achievements Samu told you about, all the awards Atsumu’s racked up in his four years playing. FIVB Rookie of the Year. FIVB Most Outstanding Player. FIVB Most Valuable Player. FIVB Most Outstanding Player, _again_. There are probably more but you can’t remember. That, or you simply didn’t listen when Samu told you about his airhead brother.

“Yes, ma’am.” The car – and the conversation – lulls to a stop as you hit a red light. And suddenly, you realize that there’s too much silence between you. It’s not the comfortable kind you get with Shin or Rin, it’s charged with _awkwardness_ because you can tell that you both want it to not be silent, but neither of you knows what to say. It’s awkward because it is. And perhaps Atsumu can sense that, too, because he starts drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and whistling.

Jesus Christ.

“So, uh,” Atsumu starts, “about what I said earlier. About your… _hoe_ phase.”

Amused, you sideye him. A very small bit of panic also forms in your gut. You hope to _God_ he doesn’t try anything because turning him down will be _very_ awkward. But this is Atsumu. Nothing he’s ever done has suggested that he’s anything less than a _good_ guy. “What about it?”

“M'sorry. You’re, uh, copin’. And doin’ your thing. Sexual liberation and all, or whatever Samu said. Like, female empowerment. Feminism.” 

And suddenly, you burst into laughter. It’s the hardest you’ve laughed in ages and, objectively, it’s not even that funny – who laughs at “sexual liberation”? – but the sincere look on Atsumu’s face is just _so_ endearing (especially since you’ve heard about the lengths he’s gone to avoid apologizing) and the fact that Samu _explained_ the term to him is hilarious and the whole situation is just comedic gold.

“What?” Atsumu asks, grinning.

It’s comedic gold because you don’t feel empowered at all. Maybe you do in the moment, having men on their knees for your pleasure, but you don’t afterwards when you wake up in the morning with no one by your side, still hoping to have gotten a text from an Argentinian phone number. You just feel _empty_. Fucking around doesn’t fill up that emptiness, just helps you forget about it. And honestly, it’s bearable.

But you don’t tell Atsumu that because you’d rather _die_ than admit weakness. You’re Miss fucking _Vogue_ , Model of the Year, and hot and beautiful and rich. There’s absolutely _nothing_ wrong with you. So you flash him a smile and say, “Green light.”

Oikawa Tooru haunts the backseat the whole drive home.

**Author's Note:**

> hello and thank you for reading! let me know if you guys have any suggestions or comments for this fic. I'm lightly basing our reader off of multiple gossip girl characters as well as kendall jenner. the goal is to create a girl who plays the game better than atsumu does. i hope that was clear! anyway, thanks again for reading. until next time!


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